March Fracture
by ninamonkey
Summary: Zoe and Wash: He's tired of her secrets. Small spoiler for "War Stories", pre BDM.


March Fracture

The cracks in her were razor thin hairlines like fine, old porcelain...like capillaries beneath the skin. He wondered about them, searched for them, but he only got to see the physical because he wasn't privileged; _he_ _wasn't_ _Mal_. Mal knew of the tributaries leading to larger oceans. Mal saw all of it, and as much as Wash tried to ignore it, those secrets burned deep and hurt like hell.

He pulled at one of Zoë's curls, but she did not respond. Instead she breathed deep and exhaled whiskied fumes that brushed his cheek and fanned the curl from her face. He remembered the first time he'd seen her in this state, before they were married. They were as good as husband and wife then, true, and marriage was a notion that felt right to them both. But there was still one thing between them. Same as today.

Never could get out of that _gou cao de_ Valley.

He sighed. "Zoë…"

"No." She drowsily batted his arm away and turned from him. He frowned darkly and decided to be just as determined as she was stubborn. Gorramit, this was his fight as much as hers – more so, maybe, since he had so much vested in it – and he aimed to make this his final, last attempt.

No prisoners.

"Tell me." He grabbed her shoulder but she shook him free, groaning in protest.

"Gorramit, Hoban." She was mad, now, mad enough to use his given name, but he didn't care. "Leave it _be_."

"It's not U-Day," he pressed. He wrapped his arms around her torso and squeezed a bit too tightly, forcing her to stay awake. She tried struggling from his thick arms but she'd had far too much to drink and he'd had far too much practice wrestling ships. "What anniversary is it this time? Every year, it's you and Mal. Every year we go through this. I want to know why."

"Not important."

The words tumbled from his lips because he was too angry to stop them. "It is, if I'm gonna stay your husband."

Then her body tightened and she lay still for longer than he'd like, and he wondered if he'd gone the step too far and done the unpardonable sin. Still…they'd tiptoed around this long enough and if they couldn't stand together now, they never would. She _had_ to understand that.

Her voice turned cold and empty, and it felt as if she'd slapped him. "Wash. Go to fucking _sleep_."

He rolled onto his back, gritting his teeth. No, she didn't get it. So where did that get him? He didn't want to press her like this, but he had to know. "It's not enough," he whispered, nervously balling and unballing his fists at the ceiling, as if warding against his own, creeping anger. "This isn't enough. Ever since…"

He trailed off, silently cursing to himself. He had a flashback but forced himself to think of something else. Forced himself to remember old, random facts from flight school to push it from his mind: _Cracks begin small, and it takes pressure to widen them. In space, there is only so much pressure one can exert against the hull of a standard—_

She reached back, grabbed his hand, and squeezed softly but it only made him angrier. If she knew how he was feeling about Niska, why the hell was she bucking against what _he_ needed?

"You're a good man," she said. Her voice was thick from drink and something he couldn't quite get. Sorrow? Pain? Regret? "You did good."

"Zo'…hon', I'm not an innocent. I know 'bout war."

"About ain't the same as in, sweetie."

He shut his eyes tightly and steadied his voice, even as his throat constricted with the pain from it. "Well, we're both in it up to our necks, aren't we? Six gorram years isn't enough time? How much more time do you need? Ten? _Twenty_? _Ta ma de, _I can take your damned secrets, Zoë!"

"No. You can't."

A deep, mirthless chuckle bubbled from his chest. He ran a hand through his ginger hair and swore softly in Chinese, even as he turned his back on her. " 'To have, to hold,'" he recited. " 'For richer, for poorer. In sickness and h--' "

"Wash. You don't know what you're asking."

"Oh, I think I do." She was about to say something but he cut her off. "No. Don't you dare shut me out of this, Zoë." Suddenly livid, he struggled onto his elbows. "I've had it. We promised – _you_ promised – that we weren't gonna keep secrets after what happened with Niska. So now I'm holding you to that promise."

"So you wanna start with this."

"Yeah. I do. Right here, right now. This," his voice softened slightly. "_This_ is my line, Zoë. This is it for me." As he stroked his fingers down the curve of her back, enjoying the contrast of his pale hands against her midnight skin, he felt her weaken. He could trace the fissures; almost connect the cracks and hairline scars crisscrossing her frame. He frowned at each and every scar knowing how badly it must have hurt, knowing how each pucker told a different tale about war and war's inhumanity to his dear wife, but he loved her. Loved her lines, her fissures, her pain…all her rutting holes. He saw it all, even if she did not mention any of it out loud. It was one thing Mal wasn't privy to and he could treasure this secret between them, if nothing else.

If only she could be this transparent with him, emotionally.

"Wash…"

"I know what I'm asking," he said softly. His lips brushed an angry scar on her shoulder, a wound that still ached when humidity on a planet got too high. "I'm not goin' anywhere. I love you. I love you too much for that, Zoë."

"An' that's what I'm afraid of. You don't know when to stop dreamin'."

"And you don't know when to start _trusting_."

More foolish, childish memories rushed to the surface as the awful silence stretched to breaking._ Steam rise from geysers…and from the primordial, something moves…_

He swore she'd stopped breathing. His heart quickened slightly, not knowing nor understanding what she was planning, but he'd let her decide. Here was his stand, and here was hers. It was up to her to see if she surrendered, or continued the fight.

"Gorram," she whispered. She turned to face him and her eyes, tired and bloodshot held his own fathomless blues. She eyed him steadily, watching for any sign of weakness or any side of fear; he assumed she saw none, since she closed her eyes, and shook her head.

"Tell me," he said fiercely.

"Wash. This is my last question, my very last. Is this gonna be a deal breaker? _Honest_, now."

He swallowed. Plum cards, flat on the table, bluff called. "Yeah," he said, and he was surprised at how strongly his voice echoed around their sparse cabin. "Last stand. No more _go se_."

"Might still be a deal breaker if I tell you."

"It's more likely if you don't tell me."

She eyed him carefully, with only a hint of drunkenness in her eyes. "Fair enough. But I warned you…I warned you. No matter how this plays out--"

"--I'll still love you," he answered.

"It'll take more'n that," Zoë said cryptically. She sighed deep and grabbed the pillow behind her head, cautiously kneading it between her fingers. For the first time, Wash knew she was going to tell him one of her deeper secrets in Serenity Valley. One she never wanted to tell him.

So why did he suddenly feel like he'd lost the war, too?


End file.
